


for the boy

by clytemnestras



Category: New Girl
Genre: M/M, Secret Relationship, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 07:21:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11550276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clytemnestras/pseuds/clytemnestras
Summary: It's not 2006





	for the boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smells_corrupt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smells_corrupt/gifts).



> obligatory composed and uploaded on a phone warning. takes place at literally no sensical point in canon, or, an alternate S3 
> 
> for the [ small fandom/rare pair ficathon](http://clockwork-hart1.livejournal.com/33102.html?page=3) (come play!)

It's not 2006. He knows that. He knows there's no plausible deniability and no one is running off to Latvia in the morning and they're not sweaty and panting on the court staring at the floor instead of each other.

 

Coach knows that it's not eight, nine, ten years ago and Winston bloomed in his absence into the kind of guy that steals cats from girls and wants to save the world. So when they go jogging, just them, goading each other into another half mile, he keeps his hands mostly to himself.

 

(Shoulder slaps, sarcastic neck massages, and pity pats on the back are just for stability. He’s played so many worse games of chicken with a drunk Nick that it doesn't count for anything.)

 

Winston is a tactile guy, though, so it's not like he knows where the line is here. Piggyback rides used to be exclusive to True American, but Jess and her feelings stick must have changed the rules on him, because Winston demands to be carried for at least twenty blocks.

 

They make it back to the loft before they crash but it hits harder than it used to. Winston pouts at him. “You're getting old, man. You're away for three years and you can't even keep up with the Bish. It's sad.”

 

Winston fills up the kettle as he potters around, shrugging off his sweatshirt so he’s down to his vest. It's a pretty good sight.

 

Maybe he missed this. Maybe he doesn't care, really, because clothes or no clothes Winston is still his idiot protégé who forgets to tie his shoelaces about thirty percent of the time.

 

He’s sitting at the breakfast bar with a mug full of Jess’ chamomile tea warming his hands and Winston's side pressed all up against his whilst he reads through his cop handbook and Coach thinks maybe he missed more than he could afford to.

 

*

 

The sports channel chatter is like a warm blanket when he can't sleep. He has it on low enough to soothe his nerves but not incur the wrath of a sleepless Jess who once threatened him with a baseball bat when his phone rang in the middle of the night.

 

He’s drifting when there's a light from behind him, and after a few minutes of shuffling, a hand on his legs. 

 

He blinks down at Winston on the floor in front of him. “Hey,” he manages, a yawn stretching out the middle. 

 

“Hey.” Winston wraps a blanket loosely around them both then tips his head back against Coach's chest. “Sleep, Ernie.”

 

“Shh,” he says. He's not sure why. He closes his eyes for a while, listens to football results whispered from the TV and starts to drift when the heat at his chest shifts and he feels a soft kiss on his forehead. He keeps his eyes shut, and after a while he dreams the same thing.

 

*

 

He notices the ball of fluff weaving between his feet when he's in the kitchen looking for something with cheese misspelled in the name. “Win, you want anything?”

 

He doesn't get a reply, but shoves one of Schmidt's weird pastry things in his pocket anyway. 

 

He lifts his foot too quick and bumps his toes against Ferguson's back leg. The cat meows it's dissent. 

 

“Is he following you?” It's continually disturbing that Jess can appear out of nowhere.

 

“Yeah. I guess. Does he not do that to the rest of you?”

 

She grins maniacally. “No. No he does not. I think you're his new daddy.”

 

“No, Jess.”

 

“Oh yes.”

 

“No.”

 

She bends down and scritches behind Ferguson's ear. “Is Coach your new dad, Ferguson?”

 

The cat meows and bumps his head against Coach’s ankle.

 

“Traitor,” he mutters, stuffing a handful of cheese puffs in his mouth.

 

*

 

Between Schmidt and Cece, and sometimes Jess when she's feeling fancy, the bathroom is a constant battle for dominance. It's not like he doesn't care for his rugged good looks and superhero physique, but he's become unused to Schmidt's brand of rampant metrosexuality. Coach prefers a quick once over; teeth brushed, beard trimmed, face washed and moisturised and out the door in ten minutes or less.

 

So, bathroom time is a hot commodity. He’s dressed but still sleep-scruffy and halfway through the door when Jess yells that Winston is in the shower and she's already seen too much.

 

(It's fair game when it's Nick or Schmidt, because Nick is a miser who stopped caring and Schmidt will gleefully strut around with nothing but a hand towel clinging to his waist by the grace of God. The loft is a small place where it counts; the rest of them try to keep their privates as private as possible.)

 

Still, it's Winston. “I’ve spent half my life in locker rooms, Jess. I'm sure I can deal.”

 

He calls out his presence when he gets in there and gets to brushing his teeth, because some constant motion gives him something to focus on when Winston is just behind a flimsy curtain five feet away.

 

“Hey man, you want in here?” 

 

And really what kind of question is that? “Wha?” He manages, toothbrush slipping and dropping into the sink with a small thud.

 

Winston sticks his head out from behind the curtain, and the water drops down his throat in a way that's surprisingly hot and kind of makes Coach want to trace the path with his mouth.

 

“C’mon dude. I’ve missed you. This. Get in here whilst we still have hot water.” He says it all in a rush and the pace matches both the pace Coach’s heart takes up and the speed with which he gets naked.

 

He presses Winston against the back wall of the shower. He pushes one leg between Winston's and rests his arm on the wall beside his head. The water washes too-warm over him and it's too much. Winston tilts his head back, eyes closed, and Coach smiles when he bridges the gap. They have no time and a lot to make up for so he has to sweep his tongue across Winston's lower lip first thing, get the opening moan out of the way so they can get down to business.

 

He presses his body in closer and almost tips them straight over when Winston pulls him close, arms around his torso and digging into the pressure points in his back.

 

“Shit,” he says, laughing as Winston's foot slips and they're just holding onto each other for dear life. “There's a metaphor in here somewhere.”

 

Winston smiles and traces his hand down Coach’s chest. “Shut up. Metaphors are like Nick’s expertise now and I don't need his face ruining the moment for me.”

 

Winston's hand traces lower, against Coach's hipbones and okay, then. “Okay, whatever you say boss, shutting up now.”

 

*

 

He wakes up sometime on a Saturday afternoon, sometime post shower, post falling into a new kind of old habit, to Cece staring down at him, blocking the afternoon light.

 

“Girl,” she says, arms folded, pushing up things he's pretty sure aren't his to notice.

 

“Girl what?” He sits up and mirrors her hardass expression.

 

One eyebrow lifts. “Don't  _ girl what _ me, girl, you know what.”

 

He opens his mouth to speak then shuts it again.

 

“So yesterday I went to look for my straighteners in the bathroom and saw two pairs of feet slipping together in the shower. Wanna tell me about that?”

 

The back of his neck is sweating and he has to close his eyes for a quick second to compose himself. “So you caught someone getting naughty in the shower, so what? Nick and Jess are weirdly into that shower. It's like a totem of their love or whatever.”

 

“Unless Jess caught some mysterious disease and ended up with black size twelve feet then I'm pretty sure she's off the hook for this one.” She's almost smiling, but she also looks kind of like a bird of prey. He usually loves that about her.

 

Crap. “Okay. So. Um.”

 

“You and Winston?” She's too loud, too bright in the room when everything needs to be quiet and smothered down as small as he can keep it for now.

 

“ _ Shh _ !  _ Yes _ me and Winston. But it's not… a thing yet. Call it a trial run. You can't tell a soul. On pain of scary death type stuff.” 

 

It sounds ugly like that. They probably need to talk.

 

Cece rolls her eyes. “Go get your Bert.” 

 

He grins at her and she scowls. ”I'm making Sesame Street references. I used to be cool. I hate all of you people.”

 

As secret keepers go he trusts her, if only because her lying face could fool God. She taps him on the cheek and tells him not to screw it up.

 

_ God _ , he thinks,  _ I'm trying _ .

 

*

 

“Ernie,” Winston is cross legged on the bed, in the big room that still feels like his deep down, even though any claim disappeared when he dropped off the face of the earth three years ago. Ferguson is perched on Winston's lap. “I've been expecting you.”

 

“You texted me to come here.”

 

Winston smiles. “That I did.”  He shoos the cat off his lap and lies back. 

 

“What are we doing here, dude?” Coach closes the door behind him as gently as he can, checking for ears pressed up against the wood. The walls are thin, too. He needs to start keeping an eye on these things.

 

Winston rests his hands behind his head and it's the opposite of smooth or relaxed. It's good to know. “Whatever happens, man. You really wanna change anything about what we're doing here?”

 

_ What we're doing here.  _ That's the part that's drawing a blank. “Meaning?”

 

“Running, training, cooking, generally lounging all over each other. I’m kinda partial to the shower sex, too.” He likes the way Winston is fidgeting as he talks. He's glad to not be the only one whose palms are sweating.

 

“So like, dating, but more quiet.”

 

Winston grins. “Pretty sure anything below Schmidt level counts as quiet in this place.” 

 

Coach throws himself down on the end of the bed, crawling just far forward enough to pull Winston into a kiss. 

 

“How long before we totally screw this up?” He spreads himself across Winston's body, and he's always liked how he doesn't feel fragile beneath him. 

 

“Bet you we last longer than Schmidt and Cece. They're like the world's worst fourth of July display.” Winston wraps his fingers around Coach’s neck and digs in right where the knot is. Damn him.

 

“Nah,” he says “I’m rooting for them.” Winston hits the knot again and he shivers, pressing a kiss to Winston's shoulder.

 

“Oh, we all are. That's what fourth of July is about.” Winston skates his fingers down to the small of Coach's back and lifts the best there, skin on skin. “Why are we talking about those morons, again?”

 

Coach bites down lightly and raises his arms so Winston can slip the vest off over his head. "Dude, I have no idea.” 

 

*

 

Coach is slaving over the stove, tomatoes hissing in the too hot pan, because Schmidt won't admit defeat unless he's truly beaten. 

 

Winston is disturbingly deep in character. The yelling has been loud and  frequent, and Jess refuses to return to the kitchen since being called a dull-haired culinary abomination whilst reaching for a diet soda.

 

It's easier to put up with than dissuade. He likes the voices. And the invasion of personal space.

 

“Chef,” Winston says, dipping a spoon into the pasta sauce, “You are a God.”

 

The rest of them gather slowly. Except Nick, who he has to beat off with the spoon, and who sits staring at them from the couch until Coach declares it ready.

 

“Oh man,” Nick says, finished before the rest of them have reached the halfway mark. “That's like what the Dolmio man’s wet dreams are about.”

 

Schmidt gags. “Please, can we not talk about the sex lives of brand mascots at the dinner table.” He eats slowly.  “It's fine, I suppose. If you don't mind the lack of authenticity.”

 

Winston scoops up a spoonful of pasta and takes aim. “Watch yourself, Schmidt.”

 

Coach puts his hand on Winston's shoulder and digs in just a touch. “Ignore him. He's not worth it.”

 

Schmidt makes a face. “Oh God. Would you two just kiss already.”

 

Winston grins, and Coach shrugs, leaning in until Winston can reach him.

 

“What?” Nick says.

 

“Guys, that was a joke.”

 

Winston leans back a touch. “Shut up Schmidt. Eat your damn pasta.” He puts his hand on Coach’s jaw and kisses him again, softer. No one speaks until the food is gone.

 

Cece picks up the empty bowls and smacks Coach on the shoulder. “ _ Finally _ .”

 

“ _ What _ ?” Schmidt yells, following after her.

 

*

 

Jess finds  _ Footloose  _ on an obscure channel in the depths of the TV guide and even though they complain it takes all of five minutes for them to be enthralled. Coach likes the way Winston's feet rest in his lap. It's like collapsing together on the court ten years ago, exhausted and overworked. Familiar.

 

“So,” Schmidt whispers, “How long -”

 

“Shh,” Nick hisses, playing with Jess’ hair.

 

“I was just asking -”

 

“Shut up Schmidt.” It's a little disturbing, even now, that they can manage that in unison.

 

“Fine.” He mutters. “No one  _ ever  _ lets me kiss them.”

 

“Excuse me?” Cece pulls his hair sharply and it quiets him, a smile settling on his mouth. 

 

Winston nudges his foot against Coach's hand and Coach absentmindedly starts rubbing. He's actually pathetic. 

 

It seems like only moments until Kevin Bacon really gets his hips going, and maybe Jess kicks the singing off, but they all harmonize.

 

*

 

Coach makes his way to the big room pulling Winston behind him and pressing him against the closed door. 

 

Winston curls his head into Coach’s shoulder, breathing heavily. “Like old times, huh?”

  
Coach inhales slowly and winds his arms around Winston's neck. “Nah,” he says. “This feels pretty new.”

**Author's Note:**

> come chat with me on tumblr [@bohemicns](https://) if you feel so inclined


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